


while thy willing soul transpires

by procrastinatingbookworm



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Crossdressing Kink, F/M, Lingerie, Mild Painplay, Naked Cuddling, The Doctor wears a corset, The Vault (Doctor Who), Vault Porn (Doctor Who), blame yonderdarling for the idea, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-23
Updated: 2017-07-23
Packaged: 2018-12-05 22:17:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11587278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/procrastinatingbookworm/pseuds/procrastinatingbookworm
Summary: "I wonder what you would look like in a corset." Missy says thoughtfully.Title from "To His Coy Mistress"





	while thy willing soul transpires

For a variety of (“complex, important”) reasons that she refuses to explain, Missy seems to prefer the steps of the dais to the plush chairs as a reading spot, much to the Doctor’s frustration.

“You’re going to hurt your back.” He tells her, for either the fifteenth or hundredth time. “Between your posture and that corset, your spine will end up ruined.”

“I wonder how you would look in a corset.” Missy says thoughtfully, instead of responding. She licks her finger and turns the page, humming under her breath. It takes approximately seven seconds for the mental image to register. The Doctor tugs at his collar, his heartbeat picking up.

Missy folds down the corner of the page and sets the book aside, uncrossing her legs and slowly getting to her feet. She raises one eyebrow and purses her lips, leaning on her umbrella, one hip cocked. The Doctor breathes out, and it catches.

She paces around him like a predator, trailing her fingers across his back and arms, laughing when he shudders and swallows, pressing her palm into his side until he stumbles and shifts his feet. “My my… and I was starting to think that this one didn’t get excited.”

The Doctor makes a sound in the back of his throat, eyes squeezed shut. She stops in front of him, smirking, resting her hands on his shoulders, thumbs against his neck, just above his collar.

“Missy,” he says, trying to sound less desperate than he is. Her touch sends electric shocks down his spine. “Missy.”

She pushes his jacket off his shoulders and kisses the corner of his mouth, kicking it aside in a motion that presses their hips together for a moment, before she steps back. He wonders, faintly, if time has slowed down, or if she’s drawing it out just to torture him. His throat clicks, suddenly dry. She starts unbuttoning his collar.

“Missy.” He says again, resting his palms against her hips, tracing symbols and letters against her sides with his fingertips.

“Doctor.” Missy says back to him, conversationally. Her pupils are blown wide. “This is your favorite shirt, I’m not going to tear it.”

The Doctor digs his fingers into her hips and drags her closer until their noses almost touch. She kisses him, slow and gentle, murmurs something sentimental against his lips. He slips his hand under her bodice, traces a Gallifreyan ‘I love you’ into her skin. She slides her mouth along his jaw, her breath warm and shaky. “Doctor,” she says, fumbling with the buttons of his shirt. “My Doctor. My dear Doctor.”

He moves one hand from her hip to her neck, thumb on her pulse point. She breathes out against his temple, kisses a path down his cheekbone, presses their lips together. He keeps his eyes open, hypnotized and breathless.

She finishes with the buttons on his shirt, pulls it down his arms and off. The buttons clack against the ground when she tosses it aside.

“Missy,” the Doctor says. “Please.” He doesn’t know what he’s begging for, and Missy laughs, low and sweet. Sparks shudder down his spine.

“Come with me.” It’s an order, but her eyes are full of fondness, and he follows, shirtless and barefoot, half-hard just from the brief touch of her skin on his. He breathes it and it trembles, out and it rasps, clenches his hands into fists and just follows.

She presses her palms against his chest and pushes him down onto the bed, kneeling over him. He rests his hands on her hips, traces the symbol that means ‘faster’ and ‘I need you’ and ‘anything you want’. Missy plants her feet on his chest, unlacing her boots one at a time, dropping them off the side of the bed with a thud that makes him jolt.

She finishes undressing herself in a way that’s more mechanical than sensual, tossing layers aside as she removes them, until she reaches her corset. He’s properly hard, now, watching her move, pale skin and dark hair and red lips and black fingernails, graceful and raw and hypnotizing.

The Doctor sits up, and she turns to let him unlace it, straddling his thighs, smiling over her shoulder in a way that makes him think he should be scared. There are lines in her skin from the laces of the corset, and he traces them with his fingertips, then his thumbs, then his mouth. Missy shudders and whines, arching into his touch and shifting to rut against his leg. He scrapes his teeth over the lines, moans into Missy’s skin. He can feel her through his trousers, wet and hot, moving restlessly, needy.

He nuzzles against her throat, feels her vocal chords vibrate as she moans. He closes his eyes, pressing against her, losing himself in the sensations. He mouths against her neck, tastes salt and skin and the lavender soap she uses, feels her pulse fluttering, her wet heat against his thigh, her heartsbeat under the hand he presses to her chest, her stomach moving with sharp little breaths under his other palm, the hard, angry heat of his erection pressing against Missy’s back. A bead of sweat, maybe his, maybe hers, he can’t tell, rolls over the corner of his mouth. He can feel the silk of the corset, pinned between his arm and his side.

Missy groans, collects herself, breathes in and out, shudders with pleasure.

“Now then, Doctor,” she pants, tugging the corset from him. “Let’s see you in this.” She makes it sound like a threat, but he’s helpless to resist, even if he were afraid enough to fight the pleasure.

Missy wraps the corset around him, pressing a kiss between his shoulderblades. She laces it deftly, her fingers brushing his spine, tracing symbols, leaving sparks (or maybe burns) on his skin.

He moves his hips, tiny circles, while Missy laces up the corset. His cock snags on the zipper, makes him groan. Missy cackles, jerks on the ribbons, one knee jammed against his spine.

“You wear this every day?” The Doctor manages, trying to gasp for breath without losing his dignity. “I was right to worry.”

She just laughs, adding insult to injury, (the fact that both are unspeakably arousing is entirely beside the point) and pushes him off the bed. He staggers, gets his feet, breathes. She sits back on her heels, pale against the navy sheets, panting.

“Give us a turn, dear.” She says, her voice steady despite the hand pressed between her legs, watching him with undisguised heat in her eyes.

In a brief moment of clear-headedness, the Doctor realizes just how gone he is, to this psychopathic mass-murderer, best friend and best enemy, lost and lost and lost and lost and found again.

Then he’s moving to obey her, lifting his arms above his head and turning in a slow circle.

Missy moans, rubs at herself, bares her teeth. “My, aren’t you a sight.” She says, and the Doctor takes pride in how her voice catches.

There’s a moment where neither of them remember how to breathe, staring at each other, flushed and wide-eyed, like they’re young again, knee-deep in red grass, boys on Gallifrey, angry and restless and alone and experimenting, needing to be better, different,  _ other _ .

The thought ricochets between them, and Missy moves forward, running her hands down the Doctor’s chest, over the silken corset, down to his waistband. He moans, more a gasp of air than anything, dipping his head to kiss the hollow of her throat. “Mistress.”

It’s the right thing to say. Missy, hums, her mouth against his temple, and slips her hand lower, over his arse, tracing his hips, wrapping around his cock. She rubs her thumb over the tip, tilts her head to kiss the corner of his mouth. He rocks against her hand, gripping her arse, thumbs pressing hard enough to leave bruises. She hooks one leg over his hip, does something with her hand that draws a groaning whine from his chest.

“I love you.” He says, and kisses it into her chest, Old High Gallifreyan that they both remember because it would hurt more to forget. She grips the back of his neck as he laves his tongue over her nipple, biting down as hard as he dares, just enough to make her moan, her grip tightening reflexively around his cock, her cunt pressing against his leg, wet and hot.

The Doctor gasps for breath, and Missy lets him push her against the wall, (he doesn’t assume he has control- she is the Master after all,) hooking her ankles together behind his back, grinding against the bulge in his jeans. She slips her hand out of his trousers, undoing his belt with shaky fingers. He moves his mouth from her collarbone to her neck, sucking a bruise into the soft skin under her jaw. Missy moans, shoving his jeans down to his ankles, followed by his pants. He steps out of them, almost pitching sideways when he tries to kick them out of the way. Missy cackles, fingers digging into his hips.

“Mistress…” The Doctor says, trying to stay steady, and Missy purrs, hands sliding up over the silk of the corset, holding his gaze. They breathe in sync for a moment, rocking against each other.

The Doctor draws his hips back, bracing himself against the wall with the hand that isn’t gripping Missy’s arse, panting. He can practically smell her, hot and wanting. For a moment he considers being cruel, making her wait, like she’s done to him in so many of their lifetimes, but her hands trace ‘please’ and ‘now’ and ‘I love you’ into his hips, and he pushes into her with a groan.

Missy makes a sound in her throat, a choking whine that builds into a desperate moan, legs tightening around his waist as her back arches. Her hands shake, fingernails digging into the skin just below the corset, ten sparks of pain amidst the pleasure.

“Doctor,” she gasps, and he moves faster, mouthing at her neck, pressing his tongue to her pulse point. His knees ache from the position, but the pleasure overwhelms the ache. He kisses a path up Missy’s neck, finds the soft spot behind her ear and  _ bites _ , and her moaning scream goes straight to his cock. She wails his name, drawing blood with her fingernails, and he moans into her skin, eyes shut.

“Missy, Mistress,  _ Master. _ ” He says, feeling her shudder, and it only takes two more thrusts for her to come, gripping at his hips and moaning. He fucks her through the aftershocks, his own arousal tightening in his belly, building and aching until Missy slips a hand between them, rubbing at the base of his shaft, and he follows her over the edge with a cry.

They fall sideways against the wall and slide down it, holding each other and just breathing.

Missy recovers first, pulling the Doctor to his feet. He sways, leaning on the bedpost while she unlaces the corset, his vision blurred with exhaustion and the last sparks of arousal. She pushes him onto the bed, rubbing the marks of the corset from his back. He floats in and out of consciousness, letting Missy’s ministrations soothe him. (It’s almost funny, how much he trusts her, despite it all, but he can’t imagine it being any other way.)

He drifts back when Missy starts tracing words, names and phrases pulled from different Gallifreyan dialects, nearly-forgotten poetry and all sorts of ways to say ‘I love you’.

They’re more casual with their words, now fifty years into Missy’s thousand in the Vault, relearning all the inside jokes they had on Gallifrey, memorizing their new bodies.

Missy pushes him onto his side, pressing herself against his back, tangling their legs together, wrapping her arms around him, breathing against his neck, one hand drifting to his hair. He mumbles her name, twists until something cracks, settles. They breathe in sync, skin to skin, quietly happy, and fall asleep.


End file.
